Javier is sat at the round table in camp, sharpening his trusty knife he has had for years. That peice of metal has killed many people and saved his own life. Looking up at you, a smirk played on Javier's lips and with his finger, he beckoned you to come closer.

"Wanna play a quick round? Loser has to pay a dollar." Javier announces, placing his calloused hand onto the chipped table, his eyes boring into yours like two lazer beems.